Alchemy
by M. Rig
Summary: An ongoing series of brief moments in Booth and Bones' story- mostly sweet, some tangy.
1. Father Figure

**AN: I'm envisioning this piece as a collection of brief moments in Booth and Brennan's story. I'm calling it 'Alchemy' because I'm playing with the idea of moments that could have the power to subtly, molecularly transmute their relationship. Some will be lighter, some will be darker. Please let me know what you think!**

Chapter 1. Father Figure

Max had barely left the diner before Brennan leaned forward conspiratorially and whispered to Booth, "Sometimes I think you're more of a father to me than my dad is."

The sandwich that Booth had been enjoying suddenly exploded in his mouth, threatening to choke him as he coughed, reminding him of just how treacherous it could be to eat around his partner. Even after all their years together, she had this _knack_ for saying things that nearly strangled him. As he valiantly attempted to swallow the menacing bite, he could see his tombstone in his mind: _He should have just ordered coffee._

"Bones," he stammered, horrified, "are you saying that... that you think of me as a father figure?!"

"No," she demurred, "not exactly. But I do think you take better care of me than Max does."

Warming to her compliment, even if it had been delivered in such a disturbing manner, Booth's heartbeat returned nearly to normal. He should have known better than to relax though, because her feline-tilted eyes were still narrowed in thought and she barely paused to let him recover before barreling on.

"Maybe it's because of how good you are with Parker."

Booth nodded slowly, still trying to determine whether this information was good or bad. He was a raw nerve when it came to his son, and for some reason, Bones' opinion of his parenting weighed too precious in his mind. Her praise brought a tender smile to his lips as he studied his partner's contemplative expression.

She had been opening up more and more lately, and sometimes he worried that the person emerging from the scientist-shaped shell was too radiantly good for him. It almost felt like he had created a monster by encouraging her to open her heart; now, the heart that she was beginning to reveal was even more exquisitely sensitive than he had expected. And he wondered if it was more than he deserved.

"It's little things," she continued, "like how you tuck the blanket in when I fall asleep on the couch.

And how you always have things like tissues and band-aids around your home, and you always have snacks and juice and _my_ refrigerator is almost always empty. And how you nag me to eat and rest and wear my winter coat. Even though my dad and I are, well, certainly on better terms now, I neither need nor want him to look after me."

At his continued silence, she finally looked up, perceiving some sort of discomfort in his uncertain expression. "Even though I'm a fully-actualized, independent adult, Angela says that we all need someone to look after us," she explained as an aside.

"She's right, but I'd hardly say I _nag _you," he argued, attempting to steer the conversation into more casual territory.

She snuffed brattily. "I disagree. You nag at me to eat all the time. In fact, I fully blame you for the weight I've put on recently." She patted her stomach with a slight scowl.

His eyebrows jumped as he ran his gaze over the part of her figure he could see above the table. "I don't think you've put on any weight, Bones," he said sincerely.

"I guarantee you I have."

"Well," he grinned, holding up two cupped hands in an unmistakable gesture, "then you put it on in all the right places."

Her jaw dropped in a shocked smirk at his comment, and he could only desperately hope that his audacious flirting would distract her from their previous discussion. Unfortunately, Brennan's focus was as stubborn as everything else about her.

"Regardless," she continued, her smile fading slowly, "I don't have anyone else in my life who looks after me like that. Just you. And I thought... maybe it's because you're a father."

Wiping his mouth on his napkin carefully, Booth cleared his throat. "You know, Bones," he started haltingly, "those kinds of things you mentioned aren't just for fathers. Those are friend things too. Things that good friends do for each other." _So don't ever, ever for the love of all that is holy think of me as your father again_, he thought fiercely.

Her piercing eyes met his earnestly. "Who else have you ever done those things for, other than Parker?"

He rubbed his large hand over his jaw thoughtfully, wishing he could evade the conversation entirely. "Well, Becca, obviously... and maybe Cam—a long time ago... and, I don't know," he shrugged defensively.

"So just women you were romantically involved with?" she prodded intently.

Several moments passed as their eyes froze in a shared gaze, the patter and clink of dishes waning in the background. A subtle shudder of muscle played at the corner of Booth's jaw and an untraceable current of air lifted the tips of Brennan's hair. Otherwise, the partners were motionless in the sudden tension.

It was Booth who chose to sever the heavy pause, pulling his face into a casual smile and leaning back in a slouch of easy relaxation. "Yeah, well, Bones... you're very important to me. I care about you."

Brennan nodded slowly. "Attagirl," she whispered under her breath, almost quiet enough for Booth to miss it. Quiet enough that he could guiltily pretend, at least for now, not to have heard it at all.


	2. Riches

Chapter 2. Riches

It was moments like this that Booth had to remind himself forcefully how much he loved his son. "Parker, I've already told you how I feel about this. The answer is no. _Was _no, _is _no, _will always be _no."

Parker's face was screwed into a tear-stained contortion of childish rage, quickly turning magenta with unrestrained temper.

"But whyyyyyyyy," Parker wailed in agony. "Why can't I?"

"Because little boys don't go skydiving!" Booth shouted, "It is _absurd _that any parent would let their child fall out of a plane just because they think it might be cool!"

"Mom said I could go!"

"I very much doubt that," Booth snorted.

"But Jaden's going to do it, and he invited me!"

"Parker, _enough. _The answer is no." The very idea of his son hurtling through the clouds, jumping from a shoddy Cessna piloted by a weekend air-jockey, strapped into a dubious rental of a mid-90's parachute, with absolutely no concept of how terrifying the experience really was, was so unfathomably ridiculous that Booth couldn't believe he was having this discussion with a child barely tall enough to ride the Scrambler at the summer carnival.

This new school would be the death of him. Yeah, it was supposedly the best, and yeah, Becs had been adamant that it would give him all the advantages in his education. But so far, all Booth could surmise was that it had exposed his son to a world of spoiled, overly-indulged little rich kids whose parents were too busy or negligent to realize that 6-years olds _don't skydive._

"It's tandem, Dad! Do you even know what that means?!" Parker cried.

"Yes, Parker, okay? I've jumped out of planes before. But I fully understood everything that I was doing. I checked and packed my own chute, so that I knew beyond a doubt that it was in good condition and correctly folded. I got into a plane piloted by a man I knew and could trust to be competent, and by the way, if something had gone wrong, I made sure I knew enough to be able to land the plane myself. You don't know any of these things, so you can't know that you'd be safe. And by the way, I did all this because it was my _job, _not because I thought it would be _cool._"

Parker turned and ran from the room, running to his bedroom. "I hate you!" Parker screeched, his voice choked with hysterical sobs. He slammed his bedroom door hard enough that it jumped on its hinges and Booth winced. How had his tiny Peanut, the baby whose miniature fingers wrapped around his thumb so sweetly just a short few years ago, turned into this fire-spitting little brat?

_It's just a phase. Normal rebellion,_ he reminded himself. But what it _really _was, was irritating. Exhausting. Fights like this, though rare, always made him feel a thousand years old. And no matter how correct he knew he was, no matter that it was his job as a parent to occasionally squash his child's dreams in order to keep him safe, he just felt like a shithead. He wanted to follow Parker to his room and gather his child in his arms and apologize, as irrational as that was. Booth just couldn't deal when his son was mad at him.

He felt the burden of being a single parent most heavily during these moments of conflict. If he wasn't alone in this, if he had a spouse that he could rely on for backup, he would have felt much stronger. It always seemed like he was playing some sort of complicated game of strategy, without benefit or a rulebook, and each move that he made could possibly be the wrong move. He wished he had a teammate to plan with, to discuss each decision, to know that he didn't solely carry the burden of making the right move each time. He and Becs had never had that type of respect between them when they were a couple, and they certainly didn't have it now.

His thoughts were interrupted by the insistent chirp of his cell, and he flipped it open without looking at the ID. "What?" he barked impatiently.

"Booth?" His partner's tentative voice sounded uncharacteristically small over the phone.

"Sorry, Bones. You're sort of catching me at a bad time here."

"Then I won't keep you. I just needed Parker's social security number."

Distracted, he wondered if he'd heard her correctly. "What? Why?"

"I'm at my financial planner's office, and I need his social security number to open a 529 for him," she explained patiently.

"A... what?" he scowled, scratching his head irritably.

"A 529 account. It's a type of savings account, Booth. The capital builds interest until Parker turns 18, at which point he can use the balance towards college tuition."

Trying to recover, he sat heavily on a kitchen chair. "Wait, Bones, catch me up here... what do you want to do again?"

Her impatient sigh crackled through his phone. "I want to put money into a 529 account for Parker's education. All I need is his social security number to initialize it."

Realization slowly burned through his frustration. "You want to pay for college for my son?" he clarified.

"Well, yes. It seems like a prudent investment. My planner says that a private university degree could cost upwards of $300,000 by the time Parker is ready to matriculate. These 529 accounts are not taxed, which means that the principal I invest now will gain significantly more interest than a regular savings account. I'm assured that it's the smartest way to ensure that--"

"--Bones," he interrupted, "I don't need you to pay for this."

"I know that," she replied, a note of hesitation entering her voice. "And I understand that as Parker's father you might feel... that you might be reluctant to accept this, but I've thought it through. As your partner, I'm partially culpable for placing you in dangerous situations during the course of our work, so I'd like to also be responsible for making sure that your son is cared for in the event of... if anything happens to either of us."

Booth couldn't think of anything to say. The idea that his partner was looking out for his son, that she felt responsible for Parker's future, squeezed his heart with so much gratitude that he could barely think. No one had ever done anything like this for him before, and he'd by lying to say that he didn't have sleepless nights worrying over how his government salary would stretch to cover the things his son needed.

Her voice continued cautiously in the silence, and he could hear both nervousness and defensiveness in her tone. "Listen, Booth, it's not a big deal. You're already the primary beneficiary in my will anyway, so in the event that something happens to me, you'll be more than financially able to support whatever education Parker decides on. And... and in the event that something would happen to you, I've always planned that I would... do whatever was needed for your son."

The twinge of a gathering tear prickled his eyelid before he could even understand the sensation. He wasn't a cryer, he didn't...

"Booth?" she asked softly.

"Yeah, Bones, I just... I don't know what to say." He gathered his breath on a shaky inhalation, trying to smooth his voice before it gave him away. "That might be the single nicest thing that anyone's ever... it's a lot, you know?"

"No thanks are necessary, Booth," she cut in crisply, sounding awkward. "So if you'll just provide me with his social, I'll let you get back to whatever you were doing."

Booth recited the digits by memory, still attempting to find the words to express his gratitude. Not for the money-- he understood that she had more than she knew what to do with—but for the staggering idea that she felt some responsibility for his son. And there was no one in the world that Parker could be luckier to have as a guardian.

"This conversation isn't over, Bones," he said quietly. "I need to thank you properly for this."

"Not necessary," she repeated briskly. "I need to go; my planner is waiting for this information. I'll see you tomorrow, Booth." She hung up without waiting for his response, but he held his cell to his ear for several moments nonetheless, already missing the sound of her voice.

Deciding that Parker had been given enough time to simmer down, he walked towards his son's room still lost in reflection. But something in his step was noticeably lighter than it had been before; something in his shoulders was more relaxed.

He felt suddenly that maybe he wasn't quite as much of a single parent as he had thought.

**AN: Thank you to my wonderful readers! I got busy writing this and haven't had a chance to respond to your reviews on the first chapter yet, but I will soon. I appreciate you guys more than is probably healthy... lol. Cheers! : )**


	3. Support in the Silence

**AN: Still don't own Bones, but will keep you posted. : )**

Chapter 3: Support in the Silence

One of the many advantages of being in the Bureau's good graces was the use of their gym, Brennan reflected. It wasn't so much a matter of what the gym _had_ but more a matter of what it didn't: gym bunnies in makeup and spandex gyrating on the stairmasters in a barely-concealed attempt to attract a man, tired middle-aged resolution-keepers certain that they would keel over the minute their heart rates accelerated, pimply teenage roid junkies monopolizing the freeweights. No, this gym was all business. Everyone in it, male and female, was there for a brutally single-minded purpose: to hone the blade they worked with.

Brennan focused her nerves on the body bag in front of her, landing crisp jabs and gut punches in fierce succession. The endorphins compounded the tension in her veins, plumping her nerve endings with sweet adrenalin. She pictured Howard Epps, Pam Nunan, Rwandan mercenaries, and any faceless member of the chorus of human scum she'd been audience to in the past ten years. She landed solid hit after solid hit, grunting with the exertion and satisfaction of it.

By the time Booth found her, she was sweated slick and only halfway through the driving passion of the attack. His hands were taped as he slipped silently behind the body bag, and though she never wavered her focus from her target, she noted each tense of his shoulders as he absorbed her bruising impact. Little to him, she knew—he could handle it easily, even casually. But she poured her anxious energy into each vicious hook, each hammer blow of her leg, delighting in the force that would fell a lesser man but barely bothered her partner.

It was only as she began to tire that she spared Booth a glance, the intensity in his gaze matching her fire. The unspoken challenge that always stretched between them fueled her failing muscles, drove her harder. This was the nature of their relationship—challenge, respect, tempered only with comfort when it was absolutely required. She delivered a final uppercut to the body bag, and noted that he flinched from the ferocity of it, just slightly, but enough to thrum a deep string of satisfaction in her.

Replete, she relaxed, telescoping down into her knees, shaking the stress from her shoulders. When she caught her breath, she stepped back several paces, admiration tacit in the gesture. She knew she couldn't return this exact favor for him—when he took his turn at the body bag she stayed well clear of the arc of his swings. The impact of the heavy bag reverberated through the floor, as he delivered punishing blow after blow, his brow lowered and ruthless in his quest. It was both humbling and delicious to watch him practice his craft, to observe the mute suffering of the sanded bag as it shuddered and collapsed into his attack.

The muscles in his arms corded and swelled, accustomed to their labor. She knew that his body was more than the physical manifestation of his life force—it was just one of the tools in his lethal arsenal that he wielded in defense of her, in defense of his family, his country. That he managed to stay his power so frequently, controlling his strength in the interrogation room, taking down suspects with only enough force to subdue them, and marshaling his raw ferocity into tenderness whenever he wrapped her into an embrace, was a marvel of his control. It felt powerful to watch him, knowing that every weapon at his disposal was perpetually sighted in defense of her. Hadn't he said it himself? _"I'm your gun, Bones."_

With a final grunt, he landed a brutal roundhouse to the top of the bag, nearly jumping the heavy mass from its chain, and stepped back. Her breathing had only just calmed to normal as he already forced his to steady. They stared at each other across the expanse of still-shuddering body bag. The unspoken fears and frustration buzzed between them, trapped now in the mute, sandy interior of the quieting body bag, like lightning bugs in a jar.

Brennan knew it would take much, much more than one intense workout to dull his anger over her decision to accept the Bureau's request to go undercover without him. It was in his blood to protect the ones he cared about, and she willfully threw herself into the path of danger on a regular basis. But it was a measure of his respect for her that he said nothing, respected her reasons even as he cursed the situation. Long moments melted into mutual acceptance, and an unspoken agreement to get to work. It was all they could ever do, in the face of the darkness that they worked in every day, to just keep going. On to the next job, on to the next bad guy.

With a nod to each other, they gathered their bags and left the gym. She knew they would get in the car together, discuss the case together, eat dinner together. His presence next to her would comfort her like a live current run into ground. Whatever words clouded the air around them, his shoulders remained strong. It was one of the few constants in her life—that no matter how much he disagreed with her choices, he would support her implicitly.


	4. The Habit of Small Rescues

**AN: I'm back in town! Sorry about the long absence... and the short post. I need to use this mini-chapter to expunge some of the Bones-ennui that I've suffered since the 100****th**** episode. Hopefully I'll be able to get back in the happy romance frame of mind soon. : )**

Chapter 4: The Habit of Small Rescues

She shields her face from the harsh angles of September sun as her eyes follow Parker's helter-skelter path across the park. The boy's surprised yelp echoes across the expanse of grass as his father swoops him up high into the air. Their antics coax a smile to her face, though it sits on her lips uncertainly, as if it's a gesture that's foreign to her features.

She watches Parker sprint away and propel himself, hands planted into the ground, in an uncontrolled cartwheel and her heart lurches forward in fear. He lands safely, of course, overlarge feet bounding away like a growing puppy as Booth chases him. He is safe; it was only a split-second that he was careening through the air, upside-down, and yet oddly, she feels the sensation of falling as if it had been her.

When was the last time she did a cartwheel? Obviously, there must have been a last time, as she was quite acrobatic as a girl. But she can't remember, can't picture the last time that she'd run like Parker, slapped her hands splay-fingered against the ground and whipped her legs over herself. How odd. To know that there _was_ a last cartwheel, but not to have known it at the time. How would it have felt, in that moment, if she could have known it would be the last time she ever did such a thing?

She idly ponders the idea of doing one right now, but dismisses it almost immediately as foolish.

She shifts awkwardly on the park bench instead, cradling her wrist protectively against herself. On fall days like this, when the barometric pressure begins to drop, sometimes it twinges along the break that she received in New Orleans. It makes her cringe to remember the sensation of the severed bones dueling jaggedly beneath her skin. And though she knows—_she _knows better than most—that a healed bone is actually stronger along the fault than it was originally, she finds herself wincing sometimes with a pain that is more mental than physical. She has switched her expensive set of cooking pots to a different type with a small tab opposite the handle just so that she doesn't have to lift a heavy pot full of water in one hand, and she has switched her karate class to yoga.

She stares down at her wrist now. So slender, so suddenly weak-looking. But she can't blame her reticence solely on injuries past. Her fear, her urge towards self-protection, dwells more on injuries that could that could find her in the future.

She isn't a young woman anymore. She doesn't do cartwheels. And it seems that this reality has slipped up behind her like an unnoticed shadow. So sneaky. She remembers a time when she didn't ponder—didn't analyze—something simple like a cartwheel. But now, staring blankly at the cropped grass before her, that presence behind her whispers _not worth the risk—you could get hurt._

This, she recognizes, is the voice of age, though not necessarily wisdom. She feels brittle, like the thin-membraned maple leaves crunching under her boot heels. Fragile. Has she always felt like this?

And what are the other last times that she's already had without knowing? Last cotton candy? Last dream of flying? Last first kiss? How can a woman know when she's experiencing her last _anything_? And what is worse—to know or not to know?

She forces herself to steady, ignoring the tightness of anxiety clenching around her ribs like a corset. She is a scientist, and she knows that aging is a part of life, inescapable except by death. And given those two alternatives, she realizes, she should be thankful to be sitting here in the autumn sunshine feeling melancholy like a worried old lady. She should be thankful for a lot of things, but instead she only feels the inexorable pull of time.

Even to the point that she's starting to become irritated by her own company.

"Bones," Booth pants, jogging over to her, his timing so serendipitous that it feels surreal. He is so solid-looking in his sweatshirt and jeans, and he smells like grass stains and laundry detergent and sun. "Shake it off—get out here! We can't play monkey-in-the-middle with only two people!"

"I..." she hesitates, glancing at Parker, who is standing with his hands on his hips in a credible impression of his father's most cranky posture. "I didn't plan to... I'm wearing heels, and..."

Without a word, Booth drops to his knees in front of her, large hands grasping her ankles firmly as he unzips the side of one boot, then the other.

"Booth!" she chastises him halfheartedly. The cool air feels quite nice actually, as he slips his hands with arrogant presumption under her pant legs to roll her socks down and off, stuffing them triumphantly into the discarded boots. The gesture is both quaint and surprisingly intimate.

"Problem solved, Bones," he whispers cheekily, throwing her a devious glance before standing up again and holding his hand to her expectantly.

It's a challenge not to smile openly at her partner when she stands with him, feeling the crinkle of cool grass beneath her toes, tickling and reassuringly alive. She is coy, and doesn't want him to see the full meaning of his gesture. It's just an invitation to play a game with him and his son, but it feels like an invitation to rejoin the world.

It feels like his infuriating, daily, absolutely blessed habit of rescuing her from herself.


	5. The Breath of Life

**Chapter 5. The Breath of Life**

She knew she was dreaming somehow, but it didn't even matter. She didn't want to wake up, didn't plan to. She was in a place she couldn't describe. A feeling of joy filled her belly, plumped her lungs with laughter; peace flowed through her like water. She smiled so hard her cheeks ached.

And while she wasn't truly with anyone, she wasn't alone either. Her memories of friends and those she'd loved looped around her like a highlight reel made of swaying fiber-optic grasses, tickling and colorful and undulating and sparkling. She caught flashes of her history, illuminated and effervescent, a pastiche of cherished faces and moments somehow even more precious now than she'd known at the time. And even as her eyes swam with tears, the only feeling she could recognize was gratitude.

She skimmed her fingertips wonderingly through the energetic swirl around her, so happy. She closed her eyes and tipped her head back, a warmth like sunlight reassuring her.

Brennan gradually became aware of a pressure on her lips, and she smiled shyly, her eyes steadfastly shut. It was a _kiss. _She had to fight the urge to giggle. It felt glorious; it was the best kiss she'd ever received. And it was given to her by Booth, she realized with sudden clarity, because she could smell his aftershave and oh-so-Booth soapy cleanness. She reveled in the feel of his smooth lips, so warm and pliant and sweet compared to the rough stubble of his jaw. His mouth worked over hers with increasing urgency, and she never wanted to open her eyes for fear that he might stop. A slow moan rose from her throat as she basked in his attention.

"Bones!" His voice reached her ears, gasped between kisses but heard as if from far away. She refused to open her eyes, growled her disapproval, willed his lips to return to her own.

"Bones, oh God, please!" He cried, his voice oddly filled with panic. It disoriented her. What was there to panic about? They were having the most perfect kiss in the most beautiful place, and if she could just convince him to keep his lips where they belonged-

"No! _No_!"

-And that, his voice, so desperate and scared, made her heart lurch painfully in her chest, sent a torrential panic of fast-rushing blood through her veins, scouringly hot and painful. She opened her eyes but saw only darkness, felt a sudden pounding pressure on her ribcage, a terrible weight that made her gasp and cry out and reach for him, struggling to find her partner.

-The black burned away from the center of her retinas, replaced by searing bright light, as the awful pressing and clenching in her chest continued ruthlessly. Her vision cleared with frightening speed and she was momentarily disoriented until she realized that she was looking at the side of Booth's face—so close—as his lips descended harshly over hers again, and his mouth forced a tide of warm air down her throat and into her lungs. It made her cough, and she flailed her arms weakly, trying to get him to stop.

He darted away, his dark eyes peering down at her wildly.

"Bones! Baby..." he panted, reaching to cup the back of her head gently as she rolled onto her side, struggling for air and convulsing with ragged coughs. Through the wracking pain, she became only gradually aware of his broad hands soothing her, smoothing the hair away from her face and supporting her head as she slowly quieted.

She found that she was lying on the floor, cold and hard-tiled beneath her, her sideways low-angle view revealing a corner of the lab. A small cluster of feet and knees were clumped anxiously together behind Booth, his kneeling body partially obscuring the view of her coworkers until Angela's wide-eyed face popped into view with a breathless "Bren, are you okay?"

She nodded, holding her hands over her mouth as she continued coughing, now remembering the experiment Hodgins had been performing.

"Dr. B, I am _so so_ sorry-" Hodgins started, white-faced beneath a hastily raised gas mask, dropping to his knees beside Booth. "I didn't expect the chlorine gas to react like that-"

"Everybody give us some space," her partner ordered, his harsh tone brooking no opposition. As the rest slowly slunk away, casting awkward glances back at her, Brennan concentrated on her breathing, clamping down on the slow rise of nausea curling in her stomach.

As if he could read her mind, Booth slid a cool hand over her forehead. "It'll pass, Bones. Just relax a minute."

She recognized a fine sheen of sweat on his brow as he studied her intently. Her eyebrows flitted upwards in silent question and his hand, clasping hers, tightened reflexively.

"Stupid Hodgins," he growled. "I heard the sirens going off and turned around to find Dr. Jekyll over there holding some beaker full of some damn thing and you sliding down the wall. I-" his face fell with seeming shame-"I couldn't reach you in time, Bones. You're going to have a good swell on the back of your head there," he whispered.

She gestured impatiently, absolving him of his unnecessary guilt.

His eyes burned into hers with an unsettling intensity. He shook his head slowly. "You were unconscious. I couldn't get a pulse, Bones. I did CPR."

"That explains why my ribs are so sore," she rasped, triggering another coughing spasm.

"Shhh, stop it," he chided, his wide palm tracing soft circles over her back. "Don't talk."

She rolled her eyes and managed a wry grin. How long had he been waiting for a reason to say those words to her?

While the nausea was slowly subsiding, she was becoming more cognizant of a few very bruised ribs and, as Booth had suspected, a burgeoning headache at the back of her skull. She groaned quietly, as much for the indignity of being sprawled on the lab floor as for the aches and pains. And also for, if she was being totally honest with herself, the embarrassment that was quickly washing over her for imagining some delirious consciousless daydream of Booth kissing her. She felt a blush heat her ears and turned her gaze away from her partner's watchful eyes.

"Just... don't..." he started. "Don't _ever_ do that to me again."

Glancing quickly back at him, she saw more fear in his eyes than she felt for herself. She pushed herself up awkwardly, grateful for the strength in his arms as he immediately leaned in to help her. As she gained her footing, she looked up at her partner's face, still tense and tight-drawn.

She was getting better and reading his expressions, but more importantly, she was getting better at navigating the complex maze of unspoken needs, both his and hers, that marked the terrain between them. Studying the bunched muscle of his jaw, Brennan allowed herself to lean against him more fully, knowing that the fastest way to soothe his anxiety was to allow him to soothe hers.

"Booth, if you don't mind- do you think you could help me home?" she asked quietly.

If he was surprised, his only tell was a slight brightening of his eyes.

Feeling rather clever really, she allowed him to usher her into the car and close the door gently behind her. And when they arrived at her apartment, she let him tuck her into the couch and accepted the painkillers he brought without complaint. And when she found his eyes searching her own with his seemingly endless concern, she smiled and leaned against his shoulder gently, nestling into his warmth.

She was still new at this whole giving-and-accepting of comfort, but as she slipped softly into sleep, she congratulated herself that she was maybe, just maybe, starting to catch up.


	6. The Tie that Binds

**AN: Hey my lurvely readers! Thanks so much your thoughtful reviews! They mean a lot. This chapter's a bit sad, and I know that others have already tackled this topic but I wanted to add my two cents. Hope you like it! xoxox**

Chapter 6. The Tie That Binds

It was in _that_ moment that he thought of her-the same moment every day, the same perfunctory chore that he had performed thousands of times since trading his fatigues for The Man's regulation button-downs.

Taking off his tie.

It was _that _moment that he failed, every day, to push his everpresent longing for his partner to the back of his mind. No matter how distracted he was, no matter how late the hour, that moment always flooded his senses unbearably. The rasp of fabric, of silk sliding through cotton, of a knot loosened and left undone.

All the little rituals of their imagined life together, all the fragments that combined to form a marriage he had only experienced in the depths of a coma dream, distilled into a simple, daily motion that had become imbued as something more. A benediction. A blessing. The simple pleasure of a wife's gentle fingers releasing him from his workaday shackles.

In his dream, Bren had always taken off his tie.

His role as a nightclub owner didn't dictate any particular code of dress. Sometimes he wore a simple cotton t-shirt耀ometimes he wore a flashy casual shirt with an obnoxious print. But on the days when he suited up, and wrapped that simple but deeply meaningful cord of silk around his neck, he looked forward even more to the moment that he returned to his wife. It was a routine, a pattern. A constant.

Somehow that simple gesture now contained all that was wifely... intimate, feminine, oh-so-slightly demanding, possessive. Her hands so close to him, a wisp of perfume, the delicacy of thin fingers relaxing the tension of Windsor-knotted silk. Her eyes so near to his, unguarded, looking up at him. Sometimes she would kiss him, sometimes she would laugh. Sometimes the gesture was only half-conscious and slipped into the middle of a recount of her day. But it was always its own pleasure. Sibilant, quiet. She had no idea how much it meant to him. _She. _Bren. Bones.

A tie was a man's domain. It was a garment that few women understood or even cared to consider. Tying one was a skill that a father should teach a son. In his case, he remembered the day distinctly, when Pops had patiently repeated the knot until Seeley managed to arrange his own tie for the first time, showing up to church with a crooked, undimpled pillow of a knot choking his air supply, feeling as proud as the first day he'd thrown a curve ball. And as much as he sometimes hated the damn things, as onerous and uncomfortable as they were, they were a symbol of manhood. Of adulthood. A yoke, yes, but one that he would gladly shoulder for that one moment of sweet release when her fingers allowed him to breathe freely again.

In his dream, he would come _home._ And she would undo his tie.

The first time, in real life, that she'd undone his tie, she was focused on a chicken-plucking machine. She didn't hesitate, she didn't blush-and in that alone, she was Bren once again. A woman who had every right to undress him. It had caught him off-guard, rattled him, and Cam's perceptive look had told him that she at least had observed the flicker in his composure.

The second time, she was gathering evidence after a bomb blast. She was babbling on about her holiday dinner, and he almost wondered if the intimacy of the gesture had affected her too. He had been so close, too close, to falling back on the certainty of a husband. Of allowing her to see what her innocent gesture meant to him.

But tonight, he was alone again, true to his reality. He had thrown his jacket over the back of the couch, kicked off his shoes, thinking of Parker's upcoming visit, thinking of his own growling stomach and the indulgence of a cold beer from the fridge-but the moment his fingers reached to undo his tie, he found himself still. Paused. Viciously hurled out of one reality and back into a life that refused to free him from its grasp. A life he'd never truly lived, but still had experienced more deeply than he could explain.

His own fingers, too blunt and rough, digging into the knot that she should have freed him from. At this moment, every day, he felt like a man who had lost his wife.


End file.
